


Relapse

by tattooeddevil



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Alcohol Abuse/Alcoholism, Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-09-23
Updated: 2012-09-23
Packaged: 2017-11-14 21:17:41
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,014
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/519600
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/tattooeddevil/pseuds/tattooeddevil
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Dean will do anything for Sam, because Sam says so. Even when he's off the wagon.</p>
            </blockquote>





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This was a monumentally bad idea. Sure, he realizes that now. Two hours and three bottles ago, it was a terrific idea. Two hours and three bottles ago, he wasn't thinking about Sam coming home and finding him slumped on the kitchen floor clutching the half empty bottle of whiskey and the other two bottles at his feet. He really should have.

All he can do now is watch Sam and try and do whatever he says. Because Sam usually starts telling him things he should do when he's drunk. Quit drinking, stop being so stupid, open your eyes and see how fucked this is, don't vomit on me. Sam's a controlling bastard. He shouldn't vomit on Sam anyway.

Sam doesn't do any of those things though. Dean has a hard time keeping up with the emotions on Sam's face, but he's pretty sure he catches most of them. Shock, anger, sadness, frustration, despair and maudlin before he settles back on sadness. Cue the puppy-eyes.

"'m sorry, S'mmy, sorry."

Sam sighs, but doesn't say a word. He just picks Dean up from the floor and hefts him to his feet. He props Dean up against the counter and quickly checks him over.

"'m not hurt. Not hurt, S'mmy."

Sam's reply is so soft he barely catches it. He does though and it hurts. Bad.

"Not physically, no."

Sam pulls one of Dean's arms over his shoulders and hooks his other arm around Dean's waist. His head lolls against Sam's shoulder, but he musters up all the energy he has left to at least help with the walking. He should at least help with the walking.

"'m sorry. S'mmy, 'm sorry."

"You said that, Dean."

Sam sounds sad, resigned and it sends a spike of panic through Dean. Sam can't give up on him. He can't just accept this. Not when he's worked so hard to stay on the wagon, keep it together. He did that for Sam and now Sam is giving up on him. On them. No.

"Don' be mad, S'mmy, please. I- "

Sam hauls them both up the stairs to their bedroom. Their bedroom, both of them together, like they always did.

"Don' leave. S'm, don' leave?"

Sam drops him softly on his bed and manhandles him around a little to get him on his back with his feet hanging off the side. He starts undressing Dean; his boots and socks first, then his jeans. Dean tries to help as much as he can, still waiting on an answer that deep down he knows he won't get. Or like. Sam lifts his legs up on the bed and wrestles Dean's button down out and from under him. But when he tries to pull the blankets over Dean, Dean stops cooperating. He keeps himself rigid and grabs for Sam's arm. He gets a thigh instead, but he has Sam's attention and that's all he needed.

"Please, S'mmy, stay? Don' leave me?"

Sam stills with a deep sigh and just sits next to Dean. He watches Dean and Dean watches right back. Sam's swaying a little, or that might be his vision, but Dean forces himself not to go sick and vomit. Sam always tells him not to vomit.

"Just tell me why, Dean. Why'd you do it?"

No. Anything but that.

"Don't shake your head at me, Dean, please. Talk to me. Why'd you do it?"

He makes a conscious effort to stop shaking his head. Sam said so. He doesn't answer Sam's question though, he can't. That's why he drank. To avoid having to tell Sam what happened today. He hoped he'd be too drunk to even talk, but Sam caught him a few fingers of whiskey too early. Should have gone with the gin, gets him shitfaced easier.

"Don' wanna talk 'bout it."

Sam sighs again, but doesn't push. That's good. Sam doesn't have to know he got fired. He doesn't have to know he lost his cool at his job because he thought his colleagues were demons. He doesn't have to know his mind short circuited and made him see things. Sam doesn't have to know how fucked he still is. Sober and out of the life for years haven't done shit to make him forget.

"Alright, don't tell me. Just sleep then okay?"

Sam sounds a little angry, but Dean just puts it away with the rest of the guilt inside of him. One more time he let Sam down. One more thing to feel bad about.

"Here, take these."

Sam hands him a few pills - Tylenol probably, they both won't touch anything stronger than that - and a glass of water. Dean obediently takes the pills.

"'kay. 'cause you say so."

"I wish you'd do it for you."

"Nuh-uh, do evr'thing for you. Not me."

And then he's out cold. He wakes up to violent, freezing shivers and Sam piling him with blankets. He wakes a second time to Sam wiping his brows and face with a cool cloth. The third time he wakes up, it is to throw up. Sam rubs his back and murmurs soothing words to him and helps him back to bed when the retching stops. It goes on for days. He sleeps and Sam is there with him. Feeding him, making him drink, rubbing his back, keeping him warm, cooling him down, taking care of him.

On day 5 he can't keep it up anymore. It must be the five hundredth time Sam pleads with him and he's tired. He's so freaking tired, drained, broken and he can't say no to Sam.

"I wish you would stop doing this to yourself, please. Please Dean, please stop killing yourself. I need you even more than you need me. We'll get through this, if you would just start taking care of yourself. Please Dean, please stop destroying yourself."

All he can do is sag against Sam's chest, his back sticky with sweat, and sigh at the warmth leaching from Sam's body into his.

"Okay, Sam, okay."

"For you?"

"Yes, for me."

_Because you say so, Sammy._


End file.
